


My Way Home Is Through You

by la-bete-du-beaconhills (la_bete_du_beaconhills)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ghosts, Immortality, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 06:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8045728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_bete_du_beaconhills/pseuds/la-bete-du-beaconhills
Summary: Stiles is 28 now, things have settled in Beacon Hills and they haven't had a blood-drenched battle in over a decade. When Lydia calls Stiles to the Nemeton, he goes without a second thought. What happens there will change everything.





	My Way Home Is Through You

“Get here,” she says. She sounds distant and he recognizes her vague tone from when she’s deep in a vision. “The Nemeton. I need your spark.”

Lydia hangs up then, the phone beeps once and goes silent. Stiles wastes no time getting in the jeep and racing to the reserve. He’s still in the manic rush of adrenaline and fear when he gets out of his car. He takes in a deep breath, clearing his mind of all the possible monsters waiting for him at the same time. He can feel his magic draw up through his feet from the earth and rush along his veins like vines of ivy curling up a wall. When it pushes up into his skull, he opens his eyes and starts walking. He can feel the Nemeton in his breast bone like an invisible rope drawing him deeper into the woods.

Lydia is standing on the Nemeton, facing away from him. Her feet are bare and muddy and she’s left several neat footprints on the trunk. She doesn’t turn towards him but she extends an inviting hand. He kicks off his shoes and socks and steps up onto the Nemeton beside her. He feels a flare of power like carbonation bubbles are tickling the inside of his ribs as soon as his bare feet touch the rough surface. She is barely breathing, her face is relaxed aside from her eyes. They’re searching the distance frantically, crazed and wide. Her cell phone is on the stump beside her dirty feet, it’s screen reads 11:23 in the morning. He reaches for her hand. 

In an almost imperceptible flash, he is drawn into a new world. He gasps at the shift and Lydia looks over at him finally. “I didn’t think I’d be able to bring you here,” she says. 

Here is very similar to where they were, but different in a deep-seeded and unsettling way. The sun is a stark circle of white that doesn’t seem to emit any light. The trees around them, which were already big, are now massive. They stretch inconceivably high into the sky and all around them are pinpricks of light in the dark. 

They’re glittering eyes, he realized. It’s foggy here, and Stiles can’t make out any forms. Just the eyes. 

“What are we doing here?” Stiles asks and she fixes her gaze on him.

“I’m not leaving you alone,” she says finally and she begins walking to the edge of the Nemeton. 

“Where are we?” Stiles asks and she doesn’t answer, just moves closer to the edge. “Lydia! What does that mean?”

Still no response and her foot, now completely clean of mud, steps off the edge. There’s a pulse of white that radiates as soon as her foot hits the ground, it illuminates the creatures in the trees for a split second and Stiles can’t help but cry out. 

There are hundreds of them. They’re women, he thinks. Impossibly long, stringy hair in loops on the ground and tangled in the tree’s branches. They’re all wearing different clothes, he spots Elizabethan hoop skirts and modern hospital gowns and simple peasant shifts before the light fades. Their skin is flawless and white but their mouths. They’re all stretched into an endless scream. 

“Lydia,” he gasps and she walks forward with a steel purpose. He forces himself to follow and grabs her arm. She’s on the edge of the Nemeton clearing and she’s about to walk into the crowds of those horrible women. “Lydia, no.” 

But she presses on and Stiles is drawn behind her. The eyes move, blurs in the dark, they part for Lydia and Stiles and he can feel their hair under his feet and brushing his face. He follows her, blind, and they walk for what feels like an hour through the eyes and hair.

“What are they?” He finally asks her, his voice shrill. 

“My sisters,” she says. “Other banshees.”

Eventually Stiles can make out a light in the distance. It’s flickering and Stiles realizes it’s a candle in a glass lantern hanging on a hook above a door. The door is to a rotting wooden cabin, Stiles can see more candles inside the windows. Moss covers the roof and ferns poke out of almost every crack in the walls. 

“Lydia?” He tries again but she moves onward still. Once they reach the cabin, she lifts a hand and firmly raps her knuckles on the door. Stiles realizes he is holding his breath and it releases in a rush. Lydia knocks again and then the door creaks open. It reveals the most beautiful women he has ever seen. 

The door opens all the way and the woman spills out the door into the darkness. She’s floating, Stiles realizes. She’s floating and she’s glowing and her hair and dress move around her like she’s underwater. Her long, silver hair trickles up from her head and sways, emitting a clean and sure light. Her skin is luminescent and poreless and her eyes are impossibly black. She gazes at them with a serenity that melts over Stiles like cement and he is enraptured with her. She opens her mouth slowly, her eyes never leaving Stiles’ and black smoke flows from her throat with every word. It escapes in tendrils. 

“Daughter,” she says to them. “Cousin. Why do you seek me?”

“I want you to take away my death,” Lydia says firmly and the woman’s eyes flicker to her. She reaches out and touches Lydia’s chin. Her fingers cast eerie shadows on Lydia’s face and Stiles’ skin is covered in goose bumps in an instant. 

“Daughter,” the woman says and smoke slips out. “I will not curse you.” 

“Are your other daughters not cursed?” Lydia asks and gestures to the eyes in the trees. “They’re trapped in this woods. You can trap me too. In my world.” 

“Lydia, stop,” Stiles snaps and takes Lydia’s hand. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to die, Stiles. A hell of a lot earlier than you. We all are. I can feel all of our deaths. I can’t feel yours.”

“What? Lydia, that’s crazy,” Stiles says and squeezes her hand tighter. “Everyone dies.”

“Not you, Cousin,” the woman says softly to Stiles. “Nor I.”

Lydia mulishly pulls her hand away from Stiles and moves closer to the woman. “I can be useful to you, I could be a tether. You could come through me.” 

The woman regards Stiles and suddenly smiles brilliantly. She has more teeth than she should and they are all wickedly pointed. “Cousin, do you know my name?” 

“No,” Stiles replies and grabs Lydia’s arm again, “And I don’t need to know. We’re leaving this-this-this hell. That is not an option.” 

The silver woman laughs like tinkling bells, and smoke drips down her chin. “I am the Phantom Queen. I am the Crow. I am the Nightmare. I am Lilith. I am Mór-ríoghain. All these names, and all this power. And you, Cousin, have a power in you that could match mine. Do you yet realize what you could do?” 

“You can train him,” Lydia blurts and pulls against Stiles’ hand. “Through me. I can be a vessel. Just let me stay with him.” 

“Lydia!”

“Why wouldn’t I just keep you both?” Mór-ríoghain asks, smiling softly. “ Why would I let you wander the mortal land?”

Lydia is quiet, Stiles can almost feel her thinking. “Because,” she says slowly. “Because he could do it on his own. He could bind me to life. And you want a favor.”

“A favor,” Mór-ríoghain rolls the word around her mouth and smoke trails through her slithering hair. “I do like those, Daughter.” 

She is still then. The light emanating from her dulls and then suddenly it brightens, blistering the dark forest. She tilts back her head and screams, a thundering and piercing roar that echoes in Stiles’ head so loudly he can’t think-can’t breath-can’t comprehend. Something snaps in Lydia, Stiles can feel it. It’s crystalline and sharp and it presses against Stiles’ magic. Mór-ríoghain screams again and the shards of what can only be the very essence of Lydia gut his magic and intertwine with it. He is weeping, and he can see the tears flooding from Lydia’s eyes as well. Everything is so painful and so bright and then it all fades to black. 

 

He wakes up on the Nemeton. He’s holding hands with Lydia and her feet are dirty again. Her phone reads 11:24. 

 

***

“You guys are even bigger freaks now,” Erica says and she flicks her golden curls over her shoulder. She’s perched on the arm of his couch and her sallow and bruised face feels like a kick in Stiles’ stomach. 

“Erica,” he gasps and it feels like the word is torn from his throat. 

She is solemn then, her dark eyes water. “Stiles.” 

A sob breaks over her then and Stiles reaches for her, his hands slip through where her body should be. She looks to the ceiling and tears drip down her cheeks and disappear into nothing. Stiles is on the ground, on his knees, and his heart breaks a thousand times. 

Erica flickers and then disappears. 

Behind him, Stiles distantly notes a dish breaking. When he finally turns around, Lydia is there. Her eyes are wide and there’s a shattered mug at her feet. Flecks of broken porcelain have cut her shins and blood is trailing down her legs. 

“What was that?” Lydia asks hysterically and Stiles forces himself to stand. She takes an unthinking step forward and Stiles rushes to her and pulls her away from the broken pieces onto the couch. “Was that--is she--”

 

“That was, uh, yeah. Erica.” They’re quiet for a moment and then Stiles stands again. “Okay, I’m gonna get the first aide kit. You call Scott.” 

While he’s in the bathroom he takes a minute to wash his face. His skin feels burning hot and when he looks up in the mirror he feels like his eyes are too bright. He grabs the first aide kit and heads back to the living room where Lydia is on the phone with Scott. 

He kneels again and pulls out the tweezers. 

“Lydia,” he says quietly and she looks at him fiercely. 

“I’d do it again,” she says. “I’d do it a thousand times. No one deserves an eternity alone. You’d do the same for me. I know you would.”

“You didn’t even ask me! You never even told me.”

“How could I, Stiles? You would’ve stopped me,” she looks away finally. “I couldn’t let you stop me. After everything you’ve sacrificed, I had to do this.”

Stiles is quiet for a long moment, plucking porcelain from her legs. She’s got her arms crossed, haughty with self-righteousness. Erica’s big, sad eyes flash in his memory. He squelches anymore angry words and begins cleaning the blood away.

***

Scott arrives well after Stiles finished doctoring Lydia’s legs. She’d left afterwards without telling him where she was heading. He’s now busy pacing heatedly in the kitchen. Scott barges in the door, claws out and eyes ruby. 

“I can feel it,” Scott says around too big teeth. “What happened? You both feel..wrong.”

“Well,” Stiles says mirthlessly, “I see dead people.”

“What-”

“And I’m pretty sure Lydia and I are both immortal now. And we owe a quote-unquote favor to what wikipedia tells me is the mother of all banshees. And! And apparently, the Nemeton is also a door to a scary-ass banshee hell and Lydia’s magic is my magic now and mine is all-is all tangled up in hers. So, basically, yes. Yes, Scott. We are both weird now. Everything is weird now.” Stiles has his arms crossed now and he’s tapping his foot rapidly on the floor. He throws his arms up. “I just saw Erica! Also. So, that’s...awful.” 

Scott’s mouth is agape and his claws slip back into his fingers. He shakes his head and his eyes revert to brown, his teeth dull. Stiles can feel tears prick the back of his eyes and he laces his fingers behind his head and turns away. 

“You saw Erica?” 

Stiles’ voice is thick. “Yeah. She looked like shit. She looked like she did when she--,” His voice cuts off and he scrubs the heels of his hands over his eyes. “She looked like shit.”

“Dude,” Scott breathes and Stiles feels Scott’s hands on his shoulders. “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re telling me.” 

Scott stays for a long while, mostly listening while Stiles proliferates about immortality and his fears and what the consequences are. They share memories of Erica, of Boyd, even of Allison. It’s dusk when Scott finally leaves and Stiles sits in the living room, in the dark. He stares at the spot on the couch where Erica had been. He keeps realizing he’s holding his breath in anticipation. Lydia comes home and she has a blowout and new sunglasses. They talk, make dinner, and then fall asleep on the sofa together. 

***

He sees ghosts regularly now. Just walking around, they’re everywhere. He’s pretty sure he only sees the ones who can’t move on because of gruesome deaths or whatever. Otherwise, there’d be a lot more. But there’s maybe 50 that he’s found in the town. 

His personal favorite is Gus. Gus used to be a gas station attendant at the Shell on Main. Stiles’ first clue that Gus was a ghost was the blood stained blue overalls with the little name tag. And the fact that Gus’ handsome face was slit from eye to chin and that he’d been partially scalped. He would have been a total teenage dream back in the day but unfortunately now he was just pretty scary. He’s more and more lucid every time Stiles talks to him. At first he just kept trying to fill Stiles’ gas tank, his hand slipping through the handle over and over and over. 

“I gotta tell you, Gus,” Stiles says, “We gotta get you moved to the afterlife or whatever. You can’t keep skulking around this place, you know? I mean, do you like it?”

Gus scratches his nose, “Like, no? But it’s also a pretty sweet job. I get a free pop at lunch everyday and boss lets me top off tank before I go home.”

“Gus, buddy. You’re dead. You’re not drinking any pop,” Stile replies matter of factly, and Gus deflates a little. 

“Oh, yeah.”

“So, who killed you anyways?” Stiles asks and Gus squints and rubs his chin. 

“I think it was a stranger,” Gus says. “I don’t recall a name and all I can really tell you about him is that he had, like, a really red face. Like a tomato.” 

“Right, what year was it?” Stiles pulls out his phone and opens his notes. He types in what Gus tells him, replaces his gas cap and heads for the Sheriff Station. His dad isn’t in at the moment, but Parrish is and when Stiles asks for the cold case file on Gus Sandbark, Jordan barely blinks. 

Gus’ case was a particularly brutal one, they never sentenced a killer despite several strong leads and two good suspects. Stiles swipes the mug shots of the suspects and heads back to the gas station. 

The current attendent eyes him warily and makes a point not to approach his car. Gus isn’t around but they aren’t always around. Sometimes, Stiles has to wait it out. Sometimes they come when he calls. It’s all very frustrating. 

It’s probably an hour before Gus fades into existence and he smiles widely. “Hey, Stiles. What can I do for you?”

“Which man killed you?” Stiles asked and he holds up the two pictures. Gus leans in and then his face pales. 

“That one,” Gus said in a hush. He points to the one of the left. “He’s not a stranger. That’s Mr. Berk. He was the-the- oh, he was the-”

“Hey, Gus. Gus,” Stiles snaps his fingers. “It’s okay. I’ve got his info. James Berk, he was a bank manager. He was arrested like 15 years ago for the murder of another boy. He’s in jail.”

“He is,” Gus said softly. “He did it again. Why’d he do it? Stiles?”

Gus is starting to glow. Softly, gently, and the brighter he gets the fuzzier his edges get. Stiles is silent until Gus is just a face in the golden light. His injuries melt away and Stiles can see him for the tanned, handsome boy he was. 

“Be excellent, Gus,” he tells the boy and then the light fades and Stiles blinks back to the present. The attendant is openly staring at him now. 

Stiles waves. 

***

Lydia figures it out at the same time he does, and they dive headfirst into putting the ghosts through to the afterlife. It’s almost always heart wrenching, and it’s always beautiful too. Neither of them have seen Erica again, and they haven’t heard from Mór-ríoghain yet. Life almost gets peaceful for awhile. 

Then, one day, Stiles makes his way out to the Hale property with a knot in his stomach. The epic Hale house towers above him, empty and gaping in the early morning mist. The first Hale spirit that trots out of the fog is a wolf, with charred fur and red eyes. She’s massive, nearly the size of a pony and she fixes her gaze on him. Another wolf joins her, this one is worse for the wear and has long ropes of exposed flesh on its flanks. A human comes behind them, and then dozens of ghosts slink out of the charred Hale house. Wolf or human, they are all watching him. 

“I-we--we found the one who killed you all. Kate Argent,” Stiles meets the alpha’s-Talia Hale’s- eyes. “We put her down. She’s paid for your deaths.”

“She’s not why we’re here,” Talia says through her wolf’s muzzle. “My boy. My beautiful boy.”

“Derek? Why are you here for Derek?” 

“The lone wolf dies,” a human says behind Talia and her ruined eyes weep. 

“He’s not alone,” Stiles says. “He has a pack. My pack.” 

“Then where is he?” Talia barks. “Why do these woods ache for Hale blood? If my boy is pack to you, where is he?” 

The entire pack blinks out of existence then, like a switch is flipped. The wind rustles through the trees and there is a sharp cold on Stiles that he hadn’t noticed before. There’s a pressure in his chest like the Nemeton but different. It feels like moth wings. They’re tugging him deeper into forest.

**Author's Note:**

> Next up, the search for Derek Hale continues.


End file.
